Time will tell
by Spanish-Johnny
Summary: Frank Kennedy was dead, to begin with. Scarlett on the other hand, has "turned" into an evil, greedy, merciless woman, and there's no guardian angel around this time to teach her a lesson.
1. The Prolouge

A/N: I reread this old story of mine the other day, and decided to have another go at it

**A/N: I ****reread this old story of mine the other day, and decided to have another go at it. I will upload the old (and-re edited) chapters during the next couple of days, and hopefully add some new ones as well. I must warn you though that English isn't my first language, so if (when) you find any grammar or spelling mistakes, please let me know! Also, I don't owe any of the characters, nor the original storyline (as you will discover shortly). **

Frank Kennedy was not beautiful. And that was something everybody realized, since no one had ever been caught by his feeble charm. He had not only moved well beyond the "best before" date, but also charged heedlessly into the "better off had he never been born at all" stage. The ginger-coloured sideburns – never left alone by his nervous fingertips – decorated a face which, at its most, looked as if was on the run from an ugly old lady. "_Or been rejected by one_", as Scarlett O'Hara Kennedy thought with a bitter sigh the few times she bestowed her husband with a fleeting thought. His beard was scrubby and sharp, as if the straws had tried to flee from their horrendous prison, but instead resigned in dejected, sprawling wisps. When looked upon closely, one couldn't help but think that his mother at one time or another had "had it off" with a shrubbery.

It is often said that our immortal souls are mirrored through our eyes, and in Frank's case that was probably true. His tired old eyes were watery and gloomy, and seemed to carry more loads than just the loose bags underneath them. And the unhealthy, greyish skin hung loose over his arms, chest and stomach where many a-muscles had faded away only to be replaced by sagging rolls of fat. However, his fingernails were in better shape than most of his wife's female acquaintances. The stiff beard seemed to serve as an excellent nail file, and they were kept in a constant well groomed state thanks to Scarlett's scandalous behaviour.

The most exciting thing about his appearance was actually the many shades of brown of which his wardrobe consisted, although Scarlett could never tell if he was trying to match his sideburns or his gums with that outfit.

"Oh dear" Frank used to say with a petrified look on his old, haggard face, and Scarlett would have to grab hold of the back of a chair to keep herself from sinking to her knees. It was not the overwhelming remorse over her wrongdoings (a guilt which was strangely absent most of the time) that made her legs go weak and feeble, but rather the ranking smell of his rotten gums. His yellow teeth hang from the decomposed flesh like a drop of water off a rooftop, and Scarlett used to thank her lucky star that Frank usually was too miserable to reveal them in a smile.

Frank's behaviour was so reluctant, and his posture so indolent, that it was on actual grounds that his wife called him a spineless coward. It was almost as if a strong, relentless hand had squeezed his entire self-esteem out of him, and thrown the remaining parts in the litter like an old, wrinkled, worn-out rag. Scarlett heatedly opposed to this theory though, and claimed that the only thing she had ever taken from her husband was money.

Did Frank care then, when his wife looked upon him with such unrestrained contempt, that he felt like he was nothing but a large dept-note in her eyes? Or when she openly ignored his requests and pleas, called him a "fussy old maid" in front of his declining line of friends and hissed with venom whenever he placed a tentative hand on her shoulder at night?

Of course he did. After all, he could just as well have walked into a cage of hungry lionesses literally dripping of barbecue sauce every time he said "Sweetheart, do you really think you ought to…" or "Sugar, if I were you I wouldn't…". In fact, he would gladly have preferred the predators' jaws to his wife's beautiful face contorted with rage and dislike. Though it was true that he _had_ been happy when he asked for her hand in marriage, it was clear by now that the rest of her simply wasn't as joy granting.

But the one thing that troubled him more than anything else, or at least would have under different circumstances, was the fresh bullet hole in his forehead.

- - - -

The funeral had been very beautiful, and the priest held a long and moving (and probably not very accurate) remembrance speech which brought a tear to the eye of every member in the audience. That was at least how Aunt Pittypat described it, armed to her armpits with smelling salts and handkerchiefs, when passing by the mills after the ceremony.

The widow explained, without even bothering to look up from her books, that she had been forced to examine some numbers, and expressed her solemn condolences. There was actually some small resemblance of truth in her words, which must have originated from the fact that she had not been able to prevent Frank's golden watch from being buried with him. Apart from that, Scarlett was mostly relieved by her husband's sudden death, for now she no longer needed to worry about him prolonging the loans behind her back, or selling the timber at reasonable prices. Ever since the wedding, he had been nothing but a piggybank (in an unusually tasteless and fragile wrapping) to her... Something one stole without much remorse from one's sister, and which always turned out to contain less of value than planned. Their relation had in other words been just as Frank himself – dead to begin with.

The people of Atlanta thought her a very cold woman, to the point where a common expression in the town read: "a shiver ran down the spine, as if Scarlett had swept through the room".

Smiles were such an unusual sight, that one suspected that her cold heart had frozen all of her features, and thus making all light-hearted expressions impossible. And during the few times when she actually smiled, the grin was so cold and stiff that one was thankful she didn't do it more often. It was almost as if her smile was nothing less than a disgrace to the act of showing true happiness and compassion.

The black irises of her eyes were like two menacing muzzles, and her icy stare was certainly as piercing as a sharp bullet. Her once soft and creamy hands had turned into restless claws over the years, and now spent all of their time in other peoples' pockets rather than hovering under admiring lips or being showered with jewellery.

Her repayment interests were as high and unjustified as the old confederates' thoughts about themselves, and the wood she sold in her store was as parched and flammable as her temper. In the beginning, the children's eyes watered when she snapped at them, then they hid behind their mothers' skirts at the mere sight of her wagon, and by now they sobbed openly as soon as someone brought her name up to speech.

And it was often mentioned these days, because of all the indecent things she had done throughout the years, humming care freely while unlocking the front door to her store a mere day after her husband's death – as if nothing had happened – was probably one of the worst!


	2. Chapter one

Chapter One

**Chapter One**

There was a small fire burning in Scarlett's office. A rather small fire, if you bore in mind that it was strategically placed as far away from her clerk's desk as possible. And a very small fire, considering it was burning in a wood store that belonged to one of the richest people in town. Instead of letting her precious wood perform the task they were most suitable for, it was mainly paper that crackled and burned in the stove. Loads of unread, handwritten letters, smudged in the edges where the tears of desperation had fallen, all of them asking for a short extension of their loans to get by. "Even more fuel during Christmas" Scarlett thought with a satisfied smile, and began to hum merrily to herself.

The walls in the office were bare and the rooms sparsely furnished, all in the sign of greediness. Scarlett always used to say with a proud jerk of her neck that she had decorated the room after her own head, and, for once, no one doubted her word. The floor was dusty and soiled, and the floorboards did nothing to hide the fact that they were rotten all the way through. During the short time when Frank had been in charge of the store, a large carpet had concealed most of the floors' dirty secrets. Scarlett had however immediately brought it home, claiming that she would make a new dress of it if she ever needed to borrow money again. But that wasn't the only change that had taken place since Scarlett became in charge. In the same moment that Frank's stiff body was lowered into the ground, her prices and mortgages had shot sky high. The only lasting trails from the previous owner were the brown, shabby interior, and a solemn, unhappy atmosphere that seemed to dwell in a suffering silence.

Speaking of suffering in silence one can't help but mention the store's clerk, who sat in a corner barely recognizable against the faded wallpaper behind him. His name was Ashley Wilkes, and by the way he held his head and slumped with his shoulders, one could tell he preferred his name to be uttered while reading it off a gravestone. He was wearing a coat that seemed to have an even longer and more respectable pedigree than he himself. The patches on his elbows went generations back, it was covered in dark soot from the streets, and the newest addition to it was probably the bird droppings on his left shoulder. His golden hair had suffered permanent damage from draught of the ornaments Scarlett threw in his direction every time the sound from his scrabbling pencil ceased. The only source of heat available in addition to the small fire stove was a small candle in the middle of the table. It had been a gift from Scarlett, after she'd been driven to her usual state of frenzy – and a rare whim of generosity – by the never-ending sound emitting from Ashley's clattering teeth. He found it odd that she had not seen the need to remove his teeth instead, but, then again, people often said that she'd always had something of a soft spot for him.

Suddenly, a feeble noise arose from somewhere in the office, and it carefully tested its fragile wings in the hostile atmosphere. The sound travelled very slowly, as if afraid that even a single particle in the air might be a deadly obstacle to its slow journey. It didn't as much as bounce against the walls, as carefully brush against them. At first, Scarlett dismissed it for a small gust of wind, but after a while she noticed how Ashley's mouth seemed to be moving synonymously with the flow of sound.

"Tiny Me – that is to say, we -" he corrected himself clumsily, "would be delighted if you would accompany us for dinner tonight" he finished with a strained smile that did not reach his eyes (or barely his lips, for that matter).

Scarlett burst out in a short, hollow laughter, but placed her hand over her chest as if it was the most fun she'd had in ages none the less.

"Ha! What in the world could _you_ possible got to offer _me_? Besides pneumonia, I mean? I, if anybody, should know just how restricted your economy is! No, wait" she made a short pause, and held up a silencing finger at Ashley, before adding "_Everyone_ knows how restricted your economy is…" The poor clerk followed her disgusted glare, and noticed to his great horror that it was resting upon his patched coat. "I only said so because I'm the main reason behind it. Besides, those fleas in your jacket are bound to make a meatier meal than anything Tiny Melanie could ever hope to cook on your salary!"

"Tiny Melanie says that a single bite among friends is just as satisfying as ten meals eaten alone!"

"Does she now? Well, if Tiny Melanie had been blessed with the same intelligence that God presented a chicken with, she would've known better than to spend your last cents on a dinner! I've always thought that you should have married someone who actually appreciates the value of money!"

"Money can't buy everything!"

At these words, Scarlett jumped as if he had stricken her, which made Ashley hunch down in his seat and wince visibly.

"You are right" she said slowly, and he – who had been expecting violence – opened his eyes and risked a glance at her expression. "They seem to be unable to provide me with competent staff members! Now, I'm not one for handing out second chances, but I am willing to make an exception this time…"

Ashley's face, which for a moment had taken on a shade that made ashes seem as vividly coloured as an autumn tree in all its splendour, managed to produce a grateful smile.

"For the money I mean" she added coolly, and turned to walk away.

"Dear God, Scarlett! You can't be serious!" Ashley breathed, and by this time even his thin lips were completely drained of blood. "Are you actually thinking of firing me on Christmas Eve?" Scarlett turned to him with eyes blazing of fury, which made Ashley wonder how such a dizzying amount of wrath and contempt could fit behind such thin slits.

"Christmas!" she cried with disgust, and grimaced as if tasted bad to take such a foul word in her mouth. "Christmas is nothing but a time when hard workers such as myself are forced to shut down our business during the most profitable time of the year. The only way to ever get something good out of Christmas is by behaving nice all through the year. And personally, I rather make a profit out of the remaining three hundred and sixty four days – even if it means that I have to be dishonest and cruel – than be rewarded for my kind deeds for one day!"

"My dear child!" Ashley whispered, completely aghast at what he was hearing, and with nostrils flaring with indignation (as if trying to absorb some fragments of the smelling salts left in the air after Aunt Pittypat's visit earlier). "Surely you can't mean that?"

"If I could work my will, every fool with a 'Merry Christmas' on his lips should put a Christmas sock in it, and take a short swim underneath a broad surface of ice."

"Merry Christmas" cried a cheerful voice, belonging to someone who had just flung the door open. The man was dressed in a black suit with starched linen – an outfit that fought not only with the task of expressing a grief over Frank's passing that had completely failed to appear, but also had to adorn a wide torso and muscular shoulders without showing the slightest strain. Scarlett looked up from her desk when the sound of such a forbidden greeting reached her ears. Her guest seemed to fill the doorway in almost the same complete way as his wooden precursor. He leaned nonchalantly against the door frame with the smile of someone who had been looking for trouble and now found it. And, on top of it all, had received it in form of a charming young woman equipped with the most petite waist in the county, and a temper that was quite the opposite.

Scarlett's eyes travelled with obvious dislike from his well polished black shoes, over the tailor sewn grey trousers, and continued to sweep over a black jacket with a white, woollen scarf carelessly flung over his broad shoulders, all of which screamed of luxury and money that would never see the inside of her safe. But it wasn't until her eyes reached a dark, handsome face with twinkling black eyes that her face contorted into an ugly grimace of disgust.

"Bah!" she snorted, with such noticeable irritation that the visitor felt about as welcome as a taxman. "Rhett Butler! What on earth are you doing here?"

Rhett Butler, you have to understand, was usually a man with the same effect on women as alcohol. Under his influence came blushes, bad reputation and an impressing amount of lack of judgement. The effect he had on Scarlett was quite a different matter altogether though, as her next words confirmed:

"I thought it was mainly rats that were considered carriers of the plague!"

"I could ask you the very same!" he countered with a smile, as he carelessly removed his scarf and strolled over to her. "Shouldn't you flaying and cutting up poor Blitzen by now?" he retorted, and the animal-white teeth dazzled her when they were exposed in a wolf-like grin, as if he wanted to show what he had to offer in the undertaking.

Scarlett sputtered so fiercely at his rude comment, that Ashley spent several minutes searching the store for a gas leak. When he finally heard her actual words, he hastened to cross himself and made a mental note to read Hail Mary ten times over while splashing himself with holy water when he reached the sanctuary of his home.

"Hush! Mind your words, Scarlett! There's a lady present" Rhett whispered, and leered in Ashley's direction. "What's he doing here anyway?" he continued, with a glance that hid his contempt about as much as Scarlett's dress covered her bosom, and added: "Shouldn't he be in bed after last night's riot?"

"Stay at home? Because of a harmless flesh wound?" Scarlett cried indignantly, and buckled the desk by burying her fist into it. "When he's already had the impudence of asking for tomorrow off, and thus robbing me of important labour during Christmas time? There are plenty of extra debts to collect this time of year you know!"

Ashley, who noticed that Scarlett's expression was on the verge of assuming the form which several times a day threatened to cut down on the ration of charcoals, hurried to her rescue:

"Oh, don't worry about me! Beau is at home, taking care of Tiny Melanie and -"

"Beau is three years old!" Rhett cried indignantly.

"But very responsible for his age!" Ashley assured, without a hint of assurance in his voice. Rhett grabbed hold of his upper arm, but loosened the grip when he realised that he was preventing the blood supply.

"Is she ill?"

Ashley leered up at Rhett's face, and met wide, overwrought eyes and a pale face beneath the mysterious tan that seemed to last all through the year. It was rather peculiar, Ashley thought, because everyone he knew seemed to avoid Georgia's burning sun like the plague… But then again, and here he dared a quick glance in Scarlett's direction, Rhett _did_ seem to enjoy the things that no one else really liked.

"Oh! No! No, no, no!" Ashley hurriedly said with a weak smile, paused, dropped his gaze and added: "Well… Yes. Some minor pains in her back of course, but other than that – quite excellent. Marvellous. Healthy as a horse. Absolutely splendid, except for…" he trailed off, with a worried frown in his forehead. "Anyway", he cleared his throat uncomfortable, "She didn't want Scarlett to be left alone so soon after… well… I mean, now after Frank's sudden decease. She reckoned that Miss O'Hara needed my support during this difficult and mournful time" he concluded clumsily, and shot another anxious glance toward his employer.

Not even Scarlett, who would never make any land conquests within the subject of human psychology, had any problems figuring out what Rhett was thinking at that moment. And she had to admit that her own line of thoughts was travelling in a similar direction; Ashley's support was about as much use to anybody as a block of cement at the end of a drowning man's feet.

She suddenly looked very old and weary, and sat down heavily behind her desk again. Rhett settled down on the table and, as always, she became distinctly aware of his physical appearance. The black eyes were alert and light-heartened, and a welcome change to the empty, lost gazes of her customers. His nose was thin and well shaped, and seemed to be very much at ease with Rhett's lifestyle, as it included women's perfume, expensive wines and exotic food. And the black, closely clipped moustache was always neatly trimmed, unlike Frank's weed-like outgrowth decorated with nervous scratches.

In the pocket of his coat she caught a glimpse of a cigar case made out of gold, and his breast pocket hid a pair of linen handkerchiefs which was generously handed out to crying ladies (the South, at the time, was full of them). His coat was probably custom-made she figured, since it had no trouble fitting over his strong shoulders. Shoulders broad enough to bear all conceivable troubles, but at the same time slender enough to avoid knight dubbing swords (there were about as many of them as of the ladies).

"Poor Scarlett, it must have been very difficult for you to lose your husband…" Rhett interrupted her thoughts, and gave her a light, pitying stroke on the cheek. "For a while there, I bet you feared you'd never be rid of him!"

She flew out of her chair in the same embarrassed, indignant manner as if she had accidentally sat down on Rhett's hands, and smacked two furious palms on the mangled desk.

"Burn in hell!"

"What are you going to do? Breathe on me?"

She cried out in a shrill tone of impatience, and made an approach to round the desk, but changed her mind when he simply took a few light steps in the other direction. Rhett seemed to be following her slightest movement with a provoking smile on his lips, but with eyes full of vigilance. And, soon enough, his caution was rewarded, for she had made a sudden outburst at him, where her nails would have torn a bleeding wound across his face had he not ducked in the last second. Suddenly, there was a knock on the door and Scarlett reluctantly let go of his collar and straightened her dress. Prepared for the worst – carol singers – she grabbed hold of the thickest book she could find (in which she entered her profits) and readied herself to fling it at the door.

"Don't do anything rash now, Scarlett!" Rhett warned her with his hands stretched out before him. "Throw a vase instead – you aim better with them, if my memory serves me correctly!"

"Don't be silly, Rhett" she snapped back, for she no longer had any vases in her possession. Every porcelain ornament that had ever been in the store lay shattered around Ashley's desk by now. Right then, the door opened.


	3. Chapter two

Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

Scarlett stood horrified and watched as the three old cats Mrs Meade, Mrs Elsing and Mrs Merriwether marched straight into her store. And as if their grand entrance wasn't unwelcome enough, they were accompanied by a rather large collecting box. Scarlett feared that three targets were more than she could manage, especially when Mrs Merriwether's enormous bulk blocked the view of the other two. Ashley had, wise with experience, already sought shelter behind his desk, and, besides, Scarlett wasn't going to break his candle willingly again, since the first outlay had already caused her many sleepless nights as it was. And Rhett was too well trained in the art of avoiding flying objects that she didn't give that option more than a passing – albeit tempting – thought. She returned the heavy book to the counter with a dim sense of disappointment, and decided to look menacing and reserved instead. A skill she mastered to perfection, which made the old ladies take a few trembling steps backwards, Ashley's feet (the only visual proof of his presence) shiver more fiercely, and Rhett smile at her with an amused glow in the depths of his black orbs.

"Merry Christmas!" the ladies cried in an unusual plucky tone, which they hoped would bring some extra dollars to the cash box. Ashley heartily wished them the same, while Scarlett looked positively aghast – almost as if the old women had brought dysentery to the store, instead of Christmas greetings. The icy stare Scarlett shot Ashley in return finally made the old candlelight surrender, and with one last trembling flick it was gone. The frightened clerk seemed to wish for a similar destiny, for nothing seemed to ease his own quivering.

"Fiddle-dee-dee! Before you even consider mentioning Christmas once more, make sure you pick your words carefully. They will most certainly be your last!" she said, with her eyes reduced to two frosty slits.

The three ladies burst into a high pitched, almost hysterical, laugh, which died in the instant they caught sight of Scarlett's hand slowly closing around the book again. Mrs Elsing bit her lower lip hesitatingly, and risked a nervous side glance at Dolly Merriwether who was frowning disapprovingly before this complete lack of reason. Poor Mrs Meade anxiously wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of a trembling hand, for with Scarlett's words her prearranged speech about Christmas compassion and generosity had been lost. And even though she knew she had a well respected doctor at home, she was not entirely convinced that even the most competent hands would be able to sew together the limbs that Scarlett's claw like hands most probably would rid her of in a very near future, should she continue.

Instead, Mrs Merriwether gathered courage and took two long strides into the battle arena, and hastened to speak while her quivering was concentrated to the legs and not her voice.

"Scarlett, darling! My dear child, why won't you see reason? Thi – think of the poor! The homeless!"

Scarlett did as she had been told, and an unpleasant shiver of contempt ran down the length of her spine. She strode over to the window – the old ladies jumping with fright for each step – as if she expected the rabble of the city, like mould, to have taken control over the office walls. Her emerald green eyes, in sharp contrast against the white snow on the window rail, wandered menacingly over the empty street in search of frail shapes in the fog, or the sound of fragile, wrecking coughs. How such charming green eyes could see red so often was a puzzle that confused Rhett, as much as it fascinated and amused him.

"I sure hope they aren't foolish and simpleminded enough to try and seek shelter from the storm beneath my roof" Scarlett muttered, and cast a disapproving glance through the window towards the sky. It bothered her to no end that she wasn't able to do something about the ceiling's protective shelter, which - in its generosity - stood in sharp contrast against her thrifty principles.

"You are absolutely right, Mrs Kennedy!" boomed Mrs Merriwether, with the triumphant, resounding voice she always used when a strong will had been utterly crushed. "The poor souls would freeze to death in this cold if they were forced to sit still for a long amount of time. What they need is a place indoors, where they can warm their hearts and their bodies with the help of a tender embrace and freshly served food."

Scarlett shot Mrs Merriwether a look of utter incomprehension, as if the old lady had just said that strange, foreign word "miser" that people sometimes threw in her direction. She shook her head in a feeble attempt to shake the old cat's foolishness off her, and explained:

"I have already turned three perfectly good brooms into firewood this week! And brooms don't grow on trees you know!"

"I've been told that you've broken more bones than brushes" Rhett interjected with mock innocence and did - as usual - not bother to look a bit scared or remorseful when Scarlett glared furiously at him.

"_He's more annoying than Ashley's talk of poems he's read, or worlds that have disappeared_" she thought with a mix of wonder and aggravation.

"So…" said Mrs Elsing tensely and nervously drummed her fingers against the money box. The sound of coins rattling and clattering against each other made Scarlett turn around hungrily. There was a feverish gleam in her eyes, and hot, eager blood was rushing to her burning cheeks. "What sum should we put down for your donation, Mrs Kennedy?" Mrs Elsing asked with an innocent expression of sincere wonder, which soon turned into a look of shock and indignation when she found herself being hurled onto the street without further ceremonies. Her two loyal collaborators followed shortly, with little or no consideration to their old age or high rank in society. Scarlett proceeded to let them know (in her own choice of words, of course) that they were not to return to the store ever again, and slammed the door shut with such force that the walls – even though they were of a superior quality compared to the wood she sold in the store – shook and creaked alarmingly.

"My dear Mrs Kennedy! My _very_ dear Mrs Kennedy!" Rhett said with a low chuckle, watching her as she sank down with her back against the door exhaling a tired sigh, and slowly advanced on her with outstretched arms. "Couldn't you at least have bestowed them with a smile?" he continued with a scornful glea

m in his eyes, shaking his head and clicking his tongue disapprovingly.

Scarlett immediately spun around, with all of her anger concentrated to a thin, hostile slit between her eyelids. Her expression made Rhett realise that a cart load of Green papers would have been a more likely gift.

"You!" she spat with venom, and her pretty face became ugly with loathing. "You!" she repeated indignantly – for his impudence had somewhat made her lose her composure – and begun an honest attempt to pierce him with her forefinger. "What are _you_ doing here?!"


End file.
